Pick Your Poison

Azaleea

People think fear is what keeps you alive, but fear is lazy, it screams and flails and makes you stupid, so I learned to survive on something sharper, curiosity.

I can tell what kind of person you are in the time it takes you to touch a doorknob. Some people announce themselves like they are begging the world to notice them, shoulders back, voice too loud, laughter too practiced. Some people slide in like smoke, eyes always moving, hands too clean for the place they chose. My favorite are the liars because they come with patterns, and patterns are basically free entertainment when you are stuck behind a bar at midnight pretending you are not counting the hours until you can go home and pretend you have a normal life.

Tonight I play my little game because it keeps my brain busy and my heart quiet. The rules are simple. One glance, one verdict. The woman in the red coat who orders a vodka soda and drinks it like medicine, heartbroken, newly heartbroken, the kind who says she is fine until her voice turns thin and she starts picking at the label on the bottle. The guy in the corner with the expensive watch and the cheap beer, hiding money, hiding pride, hiding the fact that he is waiting for someone who will not show. The couple who sits too close but never touches, married or almost, either way they are practicing distance like a sport.

Milo, the dishwasher, pokes his head out from the back and yawns so wide he looks like he is trying to swallow the whole bar. “Aza, are we done or are you planning to adopt this place?”

“We are done,” I tell him, wiping down the counter with a rag that smells like citrus and resignation. “Go home. Dream of a world where plates wash themselves and men learn how to tip.”

He laughs and leaves, and then it is just me and the hum of the fridge and the last of the neon bleeding into the windows. I flip the sign, lock the door, check it twice because paranoia is just common sense with better branding, and start closing by myself because apparently I enjoy suffering.

When the last glass is stacked and the register is balanced, I realize we are out of two bottles that people will absolutely demand tomorrow like their lives depend on it. I roll my eyes at the universe, because of course, and head to the back to grab reserves.

The storeroom is a narrow hallway that smells like cardboard and old hops. I grab a bottle of rye, then another, then a gin, and I tell myself I will be quick. I am not quick. Life never lets me be quick. I come out with my arms full and the bar is supposed to be silent, supposed to be mine, supposed to be safe in the way a locked door makes you believe in fairy tales.

Instead I hear voices.

Russian.

Low, urgent, sharp as glass.

I stop so suddenly the bottles press cold against my ribs. For a second my brain tries to make it nothing, a radio, a phone, a memory. Then I hear the scrape of a chair, the soft click of metal, and my stomach drops with the slow certainty of gravity.

“Ты опоздал,” one voice says, quiet, almost bored.

The other voice answers too fast, too high, like a man trying to sound brave while his spine begs for mercy. “Я сказал, что приду. Я здесь. Мы можем поговорить.”

I do not speak Russian fluently. I understand enough to know when someone is late and when someone is lying. I also understand the tone that lives under words, and right now one man sounds like he is holding a knife without knowing how to use it, and the other sounds like he has held knives his whole life and never once felt guilty about it.

I shift back, silently, because I have excellent survival instincts and zero desire to become a headline.

A bottle bumps lightly against my belt. The tiny clink is nothing. The bar is loud, the fridge is humming, the neon outside is buzzing, but the room goes still anyway, the way air goes still when a storm decides it is done waiting.

I hear footsteps.

Not rushed. Not frantic. Measured. Like whoever is moving does not believe in missing.

I hold my breath and curse myself for thinking I could have one normal shift in my entire existence.

I step back again, and my heel grazes a loose cap on the floor.

It skitters.

The sound is small and stupid and unmistakably mine.

There is a pause, then a voice in Russian, closer now. “Кто там.”

Then, in English, rough and annoyed, “Come out.”

I consider my options. I have none. So I do what I always do when I am cornered, I choose audacity, because it is the only thing that has ever scared people more than my fear.

I walk out with the bottles in my arms like I am delivering a purchase order, not stumbling into a crime scene.

Two men stand near the far end of the bar. One of them is wrong in a way I can taste. He is sweaty in a clean shirt, smiling without warmth, eyes too bright, a man who thinks charm is the same thing as power. The other is lean and still, dressed dark, face unreadable, gaze steady, the kind of calm that does not belong to a civilian. There is blood on his sleeve, not a lot, just enough to tell me the night already went bad before I arrived.

The wrong man turns toward me and his smile stretches wider, delighted, like I have made his life easier. “Well, look at that,” he says. “We got an audience.”

The calm man does not look delighted. He looks tired. He looks like he is deciding how much mess he is willing to make.

I lift my chin. “We are closed.”

The wrong man laughs, then lunges, fast, grabbing my arm and yanking me against him. A knife flashes, cold and gleaming, and he presses it to my side just hard enough for the point to bite through fabric. My body goes perfectly still, not because I am brave, but because panic is loud and I refuse to entertain it.

He calls out to the calm man in Russian, words sharp. “Уходи. Или будут жертвы.”

Collateral. That is what I am to him. A tool. A bargaining chip. A convenient body.

I look at the calm man, because if I am going to die I would like to know the face of the person who decided whether I mattered.

His eyes meet mine.

There is no surprise in them. No pity. Just a quick assessment that makes me feel like I am a problem he can solve, and that is, bizarrely, comforting.

The wrong man digs the knife in a little more, and I feel the sting, the hot line of pain blooming across my abdomen. My breath hitches, but my voice stays steady because I am petty and I refuse to give him the satisfaction.

“Is this your thing,” I ask him, “threatening women because you cannot win a conversation?”

He squeezes my arm hard enough to bruise. “Shut up.”

The calm man speaks in Russian again, tone flat. “Отпусти ее.”

The wrong man presses his mouth near my ear. “I said leave,” he tells the calm man, “or she bleeds.”

I do not know what kind of man the calm one is. I do not know what he does. But I know what I see. I see a man who does not flinch, even when the knife is real, even when the blood could be mine. That can mean two things. He does not care if I die, or he has decided I will not.

I do not wait to find out which.

My hand is still holding a bottle, rye, heavy, glass thick. I let my shoulders sag like I am giving in, like I am about to cry, like I am about to be a good little victim.

He relaxes a fraction. People always do.

I slam the bottle backward into his temple with everything I have.

The crack is loud, sickening, beautiful.

He staggers, cursing, and the knife jerks, slicing deeper as he flails away, and pain slices through me like a white hot wire. I gasp, my knees buckling, but I stay upright because collapsing is a luxury for later.

The calm man moves.

I barely see it. A blur, a pivot, a hand, then the wrong man makes a wet choking sound and drops, the knife clattering to the floor. The calm man stands over him for one quiet second, then looks at me like I am an inconvenience he did not ask for and cannot ignore.

My hands are shaking now. Blood is soaking my shirt. Not pouring, but enough to make my skin cold.

I swallow hard. “Okay,” I say, because apparently my brain thinks sarcasm is a tourniquet. “So we are doing murder. Great. Love that for me.”

He exhales through his nose, a humorless sound. He steps toward me, then stops, and I see his jaw tighten. His own blood is spreading across his sleeve, darker now. He is injured more than I thought.

My gaze drops to his side. There is a tear in his shirt, a stain that is widening.

“You are bleeding,” I say, accusing, like he has personally offended me by being stabbed.

He answers in Russian, but softer, as if it slips out before he can stop it. “Не твое дело.”

“Everything becomes my business when you bleed on my floor,” I tell him. My voice wavers, just a little, and I hate it. “Sit.”

He looks like he is about to argue.

“Sit,” I repeat, sharper. “Unless you want to faint and crack your head on my bar. That would be really inconvenient for both of us.”

To my surprise, he sits, slow, controlled, like even pain is something he negotiates with. His eyes never leave me.

I stumble behind the counter, fingers clumsy as I grab the first aid kit we keep for idiots who cut themselves on broken glass and then act shocked about it. I pull out gauze, alcohol wipes, a needle and thread that is absolutely not meant for human flesh but will have to do because the universe clearly hates me.

I look at him. “Do you have a name, or do you just lurk in the shadows bleeding quietly.”

He hesitates, then says one word, low. “Nikolai.”

I do not believe him. I also do not care. Names are optional when you are trying not to die.

“I am Azaleea,” I say, because my mother cursed me with a name that sounds like a flower and a warning at the same time. “Aza, if you are in a hurry, which you seem like you are, Nikolai, lift your shirt.”

His eyes flick down to my side. “Ты ранена.”

“Yes,” I say brightly. “Thank you for noticing. I am having a wonderful night.”

He starts to rise.

“No,” I snap, then immediately regret the sharpness because pain makes me mean. “Do not. I am fine. You are not. And if you die in my bar I swear to God I will haunt you.”

He pauses, then sits back, and something like approval flickers across his face, gone too fast to catch.

He lifts his shirt. The wound is ugly, deep enough to need stitches. My stomach twists, but my hands steady because they have always been steadier than my heart.

“Bite down,” I tell him, handing him a clean towel.

He does not take it.

Of course he does not. Men like this never admit they are human.

I roll my eyes and start cleaning the wound. Alcohol burns. He does not react. That makes me angry for reasons I cannot explain.

“Are you incapable of normal pain,” I mutter.

He finally speaks in English, accented, quiet. “Focus.”

“On it,” I say. “Try not to bleed on my shoes, I like these.”

I thread the needle. My fingers tremble for half a second, then I force them still. I do not let myself think about the knife that just opened me up. I do not let myself think about the corpse on my floor. I think about the stitch, the next stitch, the next.

When I tie off the last knot, my vision swims.

Nikolai’s gaze sharpens. “Sit,” he says, and the word hits different coming from him, like it is not a request.

“I am sitting,” I lie, still standing.

The world tilts.

The door to the bar opens, and the air changes. Cold rushes in. Footsteps, more than one. Voices in Russian, fast, furious, controlled rage vibrating under the syllables.

“Где он,” someone demands.

Nikolai answers, “Здесь.”

I turn my head, and that is when I see them.

Three men, moving like a unit, all of them carrying the kind of quiet that makes your instincts sit up straight. One has eyes that scan everything, calculating. One looks calm in a way that feels unnatural, like the calm is a weapon. And one, the one in front, owns the room the second he steps inside.

He is tall, broad shouldered, dressed in black like it is not a style but a decision. His face is cut from hard lines, jaw tense, eyes dark, and when his gaze lands on the body on the floor, something in him tightens.

Then his eyes snap to me.

To my blood.

To the way I am swaying.

The room seems to narrow until there is only his stare and the sound of my heartbeat pounding like a warning bell.

Nikolai speaks quickly in Russian. I catch pieces, too late, she helped, she is hurt, it went wrong.

The man in front says something in Russian that makes the others go still. His voice is low, controlled, the kind that does not need to be loud because it is obeyed anyway.

I clear my throat, because if I do not speak I will drown in the intensity of that stare. “Is this the part where you thank me,” I ask, “or the part where you kill me to keep the vibe consistent.”

The calm one, the weapon calm, looks like he might smile. The one with scanning eyes looks like he is assessing how many exits I have and how fast I could run, as if I am the threat.

The man in front steps closer.

He speaks English, clean and cold. “Who did this to you.”

There is something in his voice that makes my skin prickle, not fear, not exactly. Possession is not the right word. Protection is not either. It is like he is already angry on my behalf, and that is ridiculous because he does not know me.

I point vaguely at the corpse, because my brain is now mush. “That one. He was rude.”

His gaze drops to my side, and the air around him shifts, heavy, dangerous. His hands clench, then loosen. He looks back at Nikolai. Says something in Russian, short, clipped, and the others move immediately, one checking the door, one checking the body, one checking Nikolai’s wound.

The man in front looks at me again. “Your name.”

“Aza,” I say, then regret how small it sounds in this room full of men who feel like storms. “Azaleea.”

He repeats it once, like he is testing the shape of it. “Azaleea.”

My knees wobble.

I hate my body for betraying me like this. I try to take a step back and my vision flashes white. The floor rises up, eager to meet me.

The man in front moves fast, too fast for someone that big. His arm wraps around my waist, careful around the wound, and he catches me like he has done it before, like I belong in his hands.

I blink up at him, stupidly offended by my own weakness. “I do not faint,” I whisper, because denial is my religion.

He leans closer, voice low enough that it feels like it is meant only for me. “You do.”

Then the world goes dark.

I wake up to silence that feels expensive, the kind that does not belong to my apartment because my apartment always has at least one thing humming, dripping, creaking, or generally reminding me I am alive and underpaid. For one soft, stupid second my brain tries to sell me the lie that last night was a nightmare, just stress turning my thoughts into a low budget action movie. Then I blink and see a ceiling I have never stared at, curtains I do not own, a room too clean to be mine, and the air tastes like soap and metal and someone else’s control.

I shift, testing reality, and pain detonates in my abdomen so sharply I choke on my own breath. “Oh, for f*ck’s sake,” I hiss, palm flying to my stomach. My fingers meet gauze, tape, a bandage wrapped tight and neat like whoever did it has done this a hundred times and did not enjoy any of them.

Not a dream.

My pulse trips. My eyes snap around the room, hunting for familiar shapes, and instead I find two men near the bed